Secret War
by jtav
Summary: An ambush by the Death Eaters leaves Hermione alone and injured in London. Percy takes her in out of guilt, and both find themselves entangled in the Order's resistance. Not all wars are fought on the battlefield. Reposted.
1. Never Surrender

"I told you we wouldn't find anything." Harry crossed his arms. If it wasn't for the scowl on his face, Hermione would have said that he looked smug. "Riddle wanted to forget the orphanage. He wouldn't have hidden one of his Horcruxes here."

Hermione shot a last look at the office block that now occupied the spot where the Saint Nicholas Home for Fatherless Children had once stood. She had inquired discreetly as to whether anyone in the neighborhood had seen a dark-haired man skulking about thirty to fifty years ago. No one had, although the elderly proprietor of a radio repair shop had assumed that she was some sort of undercover investigator and pleaded with her to do something about the "bloody teenagers breaking my store's windows."

"So, what do we do now?" Ron asked. "The only thing we haven't done is chat up You Know Who's old girlfriends for information. Assuming he had any old girlfriends." He looked as if the mere though made him queasy, and Hermione couldn't say she blamed him.

Hermione shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe we should pay Borgin another visit. The old man is an expert in Dark objects, and we know that he doesn't have any objection to dealing with Death Eaters. I'll wager he knows more than he's telling."

"Well, we've visited every haunt of You Know Who that we know about. I don't see why we're bothering. If an object has a bit of my soul in it and I wanted to keep anybody from finding it, I'd chuck it into the ocean or bury it under the ice in Antarctica. Wouldn't it be sort of stupid for him to put one in a place associated with him?"

Hermione glared at Ron. She had explained this particular limitation of Horcruxes more times than she cared to count, but he seemed no closer to understanding it. "Because he doesn't have a choice. A Horcrux must be an item that has some special meaning to its creator. The magic compels him to choose a place that's significant to him as a hiding place. Like the cave he visited as a boy or the Gaunts' shack."

They turned to walk back to the abandoned side street three blocks away. From there, they could Apparate back to the relative safety of the tent. Hermione didn't think the Death Eaters would follow them here -- the cars, Walkmans, and other trappings of modern life kept them out of this part of the city as surely as her protective enchantments would have -- but it was better safe than sorry.

"I still think he left something at Hogwarts. It was the closest thing he ever had to a home. He didn't want to leave. That's why he stopped the basilisk attacks, remember? And he didn't ask for the Defense job because he enjoyed teaching."

Hermione shook her head, but didn't bother to correct him. In his own way, Harry could be as irrational as Ron. Just because he and the young Tom Riddle had shared some superficial similarities, he thought they were alike in every way that didn't involve mass murder. Riddle had stopped the attacks, true, but only to avoid going back to the orphanage. Anyone in similar circumstances would have made the same choice. As for his eagerness to become a professor, he had wanted influence. What better way to shape the wizard world to his liking than become a professor and later headmaster? He could have influenced the course of Wizarding Britain as surely as if he had been Minister for Magic. It was simply impossible that he could have hidden a Horcrux there. The danger of it being discovered by an enterprising student or Dumbledore was too great. The magic of Horcruxes aside, Voldemort wasn't that foolish.

"Well, unless either of you have any other ideas, I guess it's back to the tent." Harry strode purposefully toward the Apparition point.

Hermione tried to follow him, but Ron clutched at her wrist. "Hold on a second," he whispered. "I want to talk to you." Hermione raised an eyebrow, and he stammered, "Do you think Harry knows what he's doing?"

"Pardon?"

Ron leaned in closer and ran his fingers through his hair. "Ever since we broke into the Ministry, we've been running around like hippogriffs with our heads cut off. We're no closer to figuring out where any of the other Horcruxes are or destroying the one we do have. I need to know that I'm not running around England risking my neck for nothing. I need to know that Harry knows how to win this."

Hermione blinked. She knew that Ron had been growing increasingly cranky and tired. They all had. She hadn't imagined it spiraled this far, into doubt. "If Dumbledore didn't think Harry could do this, he wouldn't have told him to. We have to trust him. Harry's going to need our support if he's to end this once and for all."

Her words sounded hollow even to her. As much as she hated it, Ron had a point. They hadn't accomplished anything in the last few weeks except nearly starve. Muggle-borns were being forced into hiding, thrown into Azkaban or worse. Muggles were being murdered and didn't even know that they were being targeted. Shouldn't she, Harry, and Ron be doing something to help the resistance instead of enduring what seemed to be an endless camping trip? She had gotten rather good at protective magic in the last month. Shouldn't she be using it to protect someone besides the three of them?

Harry turned back and glared at them. "Are you two coming? We have to get back to camp. I know you two are frustrated because we aren't any closer to figure out where Voldemort --"

The color drained from Ron's face and his eyes bulged. "I've told you not to say that name!"

Harry barely suppressed rolling his eyes. "Would you stop? Voldemort's a dark wizard, not the boogeyman. Saying his name doesn't cause him to pop up out of nowhere." He sobered. "Besides, Dumbledore was never afraid to call him by his name. I can't be less brave than Dumbledore.

"Lot of good it did him in the end," Ron muttered. "Dad used to tell me stories about the first war. You-Know-Who could find every hiding place, get past every protective charm. The people who were brave enough to say his name were the first to die, I guess because they were his biggest opponents."

Whatever response Harry was going to make was cut off by the unmistakable _crack_ of Apparition. Four figures in long black robes appeared ten feet in front of them. Hermione's eyes widened in horror. She recognized these men: Dolohov, Yaxley, and the Lestrange brothers. The Death Eaters had found them.

No one moved for a long moment. Hermione was too frightened; the Death Eaters must have been too shocked. Then a malicious grin spread across Dolohov's face. "It's Potter! We've got him now!"

It was as if a Freezing Charm had worn off. Harry whipped out his wand. _Expelliarmus!_" Rabastian's half-drawn wand sailed through the air toward Harry. Hermione's terror receded from all-consuming to merely overpowering, and she put up a hasty Shield Charm. She, Harry, and Ron would have to either lose the three remaining Death Eaters or knock them unconscious. They couldn't afford a repeat of their escape from the Ministry.

A jet of red light rocketed toward her. Her Shield Charm absorbed the brunt of the spell, but Hermione's knees still buckled from the force of it. She sent her own Stunner in return. Yaxley's shield was weaker than hers, and he fell to his knees. "Bitch!" he growled.

A couple emerged from a nearby restaurant. They watched the light of the curses and counter-curses ricochet in mid-air with puzzled expressions that bore only the slightest tinge of apprehension. "What is that?" the man asked. "Some sort of street theater?"

Hermione had no time to ponder Muggle reactions. Yaxley had pulled himself to his feet. He sneered. "You think you're so good with a wand? All the magic in the world won't save you against this! _Avad --"_

Dolohov was dueling Ron furiously, but he flicked his eyes toward Yaxley. "No! The Dark Lord wants them alive!" Ron took advantage of his momentary distraction to conjure a flock of birds that made straight for his eyes. Dolohov threw up his free arm to shield himself. "Get away you stupid beasts!" he shouted as the birds furiously pecked at his head. Hermione smiled inwardly. At least her jealousy of Lavender last year had turned out to be useful for something after all.

The Muggle couple clapped and laughed. "I don't know what it is," the woman said, "but it's very entertaining."

Yaxley scowled. "You hear that, Mudblood? They said they wanted a show. I say we give them one, no matter what the Dark Lord said. _"Avada Kedavra!"_

The sound of rushing wind filled her ears, and the Killing Curse seemed to travel toward her in slow motion. Hermione stood frozen to the spot. No matter how often someone tried to kill her, the terror never faded. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Harry whip his head toward her and shout "Duck!" It was enough to pull Hermione from her stupor. She ducked just in time, and Yaxley's curse fractured the lamppost behind her into a dozen pieces. The woman screamed and fled back into the store, presumably to call for help. The police would be useless against magic and only put more people in danger.

Ron must have had the same idea. "Just a thought," he said between pants," but maybe we should draw the bad guys away from the pedestrians?"

Harry nodded sharply. "Run for it!" Hermione didn't wait for him to finish the sentence. She ran down the street as fast as her legs would carry her. Ron was right. It was far too dangerous to do battle in a public place. Maybe they could lose their pursuers entirely, Apparate back to the tent, and avoid further fighting. They were tired and hungry, and it was foolish to give the Death Eaters any more chances to capture them than was absolutely necessary.

She ran for perhaps half a mile and ducked into an alley. Shuttered houses and boarded up shops lined both sides of the street. The buildings were tinged a sickly grey, as if they had been bathed in smoke. Shoots of grass spurted through cracks in the pavement. She leaned against a grimy wall to catch her breath, heedless of the damage to her clothes.

Hermione looked behind her. There was no sign of Harry or Ron. That shouldn't worry her as much as it did. They had probably split up in hopes of confusing the Death Eaters. It would be much safer to rendezvous back at camp, where her repelling and protective charms would keep away unwanted intruders. Then again, she would have staked her life on the fact that the sheer Muggleness of this part of London would have kept them from being followed, and look how that had turned out.

A shadow fell across her. Rodolphus filled the entrance to the alley. He looked her up and down. "There you are, my dear. I was afraid that you had given my colleagues and me the slip." Rodolphus did not scowl or sneer at her, or even have a psychotic gleam in his eye. He merely smirked, as if she'd been a naughty child who'd had no hope of running away. Hermione prepared to Apparate, but Rodolphus clucked his tongue and muttered something under his breath. Hermione felt a weight press down on her shoulders for a brief moment. "Dumbledore is not the only one who knows how to create an Anti-Apparition Ward. You cannot escape as easily as that. Come along now."

Panic raced through her. She readied her wand. "I think not. _Stupefy!"_

Rodolphus flicked his wrist. A shimmering silver mist enveloped him. The curse bounced off it and sailed harmlessly into the sky. He chuckled. "Foolish girl. Frank Longbottom was the greatest Auror of his day, and I reduced him to a gibbering shell of his former self. What makes you think a half-trained Mudblood like you will fare any better? Severus always said you were the most clever of Potter's allies, but it turns out you are merely another foolhardy Gryffindor."

Hermione said nothing. She would not rise to his bait. That would expend mental energy better served in discovering a way to defeat him. She had never seen a Shield Charm like the one he was using, but they all worked according to the same principles. They absorbed magical energy. If too much energy was thrown at a shield, then it "overloaded" and dissipated. The remaining magical energy hit its target as a weakened form of the spell that was cast. All she needed was a sufficiently powerful spell that would incapacitate Rodolphus -- or at least buy her time to get away.

The answer hit her like lightning. She had a sudden vision of Draco Malfoy, his face a bloody mess, lying half-dead on the floor of Myrtle's bathroom. _Sectumsempra_ would do nicely. Even in a weakened form, it should distract Rodolphus long enough for her to make her escape. It was undoubtedly Dark magic, but she knew better than anyone that sometimes one had to do questionable things to win a war. In any case, Rodolphus would do far worse if he caught her. The fact that the spell was Snape's creation was merely a delicious irony.

Hermione slashed the air with her wand as if it were a saber _Sectumsempra!"_ She felt the power surge through her and then exit her body through the wand, leaving her feeling slightly drained. Her books had been right. Powerful Dark Magic really did take its toll on the caster. She would have to rest for a few moments once she got away from Roldolphus if she wanted to do anything more difficult than turning a guinea pig into a guinea fowl.

The mist quivered for a moment, then vanished. Rodolphus hissed in pain and slapped a hand to his cheek. Hermione bolted in the opposite direction, praying she would be fast enough. She wasn't. "I have endured far worse pain than that in my Master's service," he called after her. "I admit that your technique is very good for a Mudblood, but there wasn't anything behind the spell. A word of advice: do not call upon the Dark Arts if you're not prepared to use all of your rage and hate to fuel them. That is what they require."

Hermione rounded on him, wand still drawn. She lacked the power to mount any serious defense, but there was a possibility that Rodolphus hadn't figured that out yet. Dark wizards could be so cartoonishly stupid sometimes. If she could just goad him into making a mistake, she might have a chance. "Thank you for the advice. I'll remember it if I ever decide to sink to your level."

"You're welcome. Not that you'll get the chance. I'm not nearly as stupid as Yaxley or as... impassioned as my dear wife. This ends now. _"Mutilo!"_

Hermione screamed. Thick, ropelike welts crisscrossed her palm and fingers. Stabbing pains lanced through her hand, as if a dozen tiny knives were hacking at her. Her wand slipped from her grasp and clattered uselessly to the ground. The only thing that made the agony more endurable was that it was mercifully confined to her hand. She clutched her hand and fell to one knee.

"My Master taught me that," Rodolphus said calmly. "Not only does this particular curse cause most terrible pain, you will find that you have lost the ability to make the fine motions necessary for most wandwork. Even if you attempt to use your other hand, you will find that the magic will not flow as easily for you." He stooped and picked up her wand, and never taking his eyes off her. "So, you see that you have neither power nor hope. Give up now, and you will live. The Dark Lord is most merciful."

Hermione bit back a whimper and staggered to her feet. Think. She had to ignore the pain and think. If there was one thing that Harry had taught her, it was that there was always a way out. You merely had to find it. Rodolphus advanced on her, a gleam of triumph in his eyes. She could see the lines time and Azkaban had etched on his face. A moment more, and he would be on her. Capture was not an option. Somehow, she had to find a way to defeat one of Voldemort's most powerful servants -- without magic.

And there it was. Hadn't she once told Harry that wizards tended to depend so much on magic that they forgot logic and non-magical ways of doing things? Rodolphus had probably been using curses and hexes for so long that he had forgotten that there were methods of self-defense that didn't rely on a wand. If not... No, she wouldn't let herself think about it.

Rodolphus grabbed her by her good arm. "There's a good girl," he murmured and leaned over her.

Hermione seized her opportunity. She did the only sensible thing and kneed him in the groin. Hard. Rodolphus grunted and doubled over. Hermione shrugged him off, grabbed her wand, and sprinted in the opposite direction, silently blessing an overprotective father who was determined that his only daughter would be able to defend herself.

When she was almost out of earshot, Rodolphus called after her. "You can't run for long. The pain's only going to get worse. Eventually, you won't be able to think of anything else, even running."

Hermione did not look back. She couldn't think of the pain or Rodolphus' words. All that mattered was finding Harry and Ron.


	2. The Hiding Place

Six months ago, the state of Diagon Alley would have been unthinkable to Percy. Three months ago, the sight of people living in the street and the smell of their unwashed bodies would have made him nauseated. Now, he could almost ignore it. He walked briskly toward Quiverton's Quills and Parchment, careful to keep his gaze focused straight ahead. A female voice called out to him. Another beggar, most likely. He willed himself to ignore the sound. In the early days of the new Ministry regime, he had given a handful of Sickles to a dirty-faced child who had reminded him of Ginny. He had nearly been crushed by the ensuing scramble for coins. After that, Percy had learned to restrain his charitable impulses.

A grubby hand clutched his sleeve. Percy turned. A middle-aged wizard with long, iron-gray hair looked up at him. His cheeks were hollow and sunken. Grime stained his robes. He seemed familiar somehow, but Percy could not think where he had seen him before. "Weasley? Percy Weasley?"

Percy squinted. "I don't believe I've had the pleasure."

The man smiled. He had had extremely good teeth once upon a time—no one got their teeth that straight without magical help—but they had long since turned yellow, and he was showing the early signs of gum disease. "You don't know me? I'm Vincent Paulson. I was in the IMC at the same time you were. You had the office across the hall."

He did remember a Vincent Paulson who had worked in the Department of International Magical Cooperation at the same time he was there, but this man couldn't be him. The Paulson he had known was the only man neater than either Mr. Crouch or Percy himself. The man had organized quills by length, for Merlin's sake! Paulson would have rather died than be seen in such a state

His disbelief must have shown on his face, because Paulson continued, "I realize that my appearance has suffered a turn for the worse. Times are hard for every Muggle-born witch and wizard. I've lost my job and my wand. My family is God-knows-where. At least my wife had the sense to take our boys out of the country this summer."

Percy dropped his eyes. Aside from his neatness, the only other thing that he remembered about Paulson was that his desk had been covered with pictures of his sons. Always. "I'm very sorry to hear that."

Paulson's eyes brightened. "Then perhaps you can help me? Word on the street—and I assure you I mean that literally, I'm sorry to say—is that you still work at the Ministry. Am I correct?" Percy nodded dumbly, and Paulson's smile widened. "You always were good at ingratiating yourself to those in power. Tell the Ministry that I'm an honest wizard and didn't steal my magic."

Paulson thought he had influence? Percy suppressed a laugh. If there was one thing that could be said for the Ministry, it was consistency. Blood really did mean everything. Being related to a blood traitor was almost as bad as being a blood traitor himself. He had gone from being Rufus Scrimgeour's personal assistant to being a file clerk. He supposed that the only reason no one was following him was that he wasn't important enough. Rescue Paulson? He couldn't rescue a kneazle from a tree. "I'm sorry, sir, but there's nothing I can do."

Paulson clutched his robe as if it were a lifeline. "But—"

"You're on your own. It's not that I don't want to help you. I can't."

Paulson's smile vanished. In its place was a snarl. "There was a lot of gossip about you when you were hired, Weasley. You were supposed to be the most intelligent and talented wizard to enter the Ministry since Kingsley Shacklebolt. Ludo Bagman wagered ten Galleons that you'd be Minister within fifteen years. Well, what good is all that talent if you can't save people?"

"In case you haven't noticed," Percy snapped, "Shacklebolt has gone to ground." He turned on his heel and darted inside Quiverton's while Paulson screamed obscenities at him.

That ought to have been the end of the matter, but it wasn't. Paulson's face kept flashing into his mind as he shopped. Percy had known that the Ministry in general, and the Muggle-Born Registration Committee in particular, were responsible for horrible things. Every day, employees talked of the latest disappearance in low whispers. The _Prophet's_ editorial pages regularly called for "Muggle hunts" that were supposed to provide retribution for the witch hunts of the 16th and 17th centuries. If that was not proof that something was very wrong, he had only to look around and see the misery created over the last few months.

Before this moment, however, he had only known of Muggle-borns who had been displaced. He hadn't known any of them. The closest he had come were the reports that Hermione was on the run with Ron and Harry. He had certainly never had the chance to compare how one lived before the Registration Decrees to how that person lived after. Paulson had seemed scarcely recognizable. Worse than that, he had seemed scarcely human. Was that the real purpose of all this: to turn the Muggle-borns into the filthy, crude, grasping wretches that those sickly sweet pamphlets claimed them to be?

Percy shook his head. Sometimes, he wondered how this could have happened. Wizarding society had always been prone to occasional violent bouts of reactionary sentiment: the Founders' War, Malvolio's Rebellion, the Hogsmeade Riots of 1742. The history books were filled with examples of what could only be described as temporary insanity. Usually, though, there was some visible proximate cause. The Danes invaded. A plague ravaged Scotland. Disgruntled Cannons fans started a riot that blossomed into a full-scale rebellion. Not this time. This time last year, the country had been fighting a war against pureblood fanatics. A year later, it was willing, however timidly, to hand over government to those same fanatics. Had Britain gone mad while he wasn't looking? The next thing he knew, the Ministry would be handing out yellow stars and pink triangles.

He had done all he could to prevent it. Hadn't he? His family would certainly argue that point. They thought he should have fallen in line behind Dumbledore and Harry like they had. How could he have known that Harry was telling the truth two years ago? The dead did not come back. It was a fundamental law of magic. Harry might as well have said that the sky was purple or that you could Conjure food out of nothing. Yet, his family had trusted Harry instead of a millennium of magical knowledge. Instead of him.

The following year had been no better. He and the government had accepted their error and were fighting the war against He Who Must Not Be Named to the best of their ability. His family had not. They had once again followed Dumbledore's lead and assisted him in waging his own private war. The memory infuriated Percy. If Dumbledore had wanted to be responsible for the security of Wizarding Britain and lecture the Ministry on appropriate conduct in wartime, he ought to have become Minister. Keeping the citizenry safe was the responsibility of the state, not private individuals.

Percy was halfway home when he noticed the girl. Her dark brown hair was plastered with sweat, and her face was ashen. She huddled against a brick wall, clutching her hand and gasping in pain. Several passersby stopped to gawk at her, but no one offered to help. It was only when she raised glazed eyes to meet his that he realized he was looking at Hermione. "P-Percy?"

He stopped. Had the rumors been wrong? Was Hermione merely another homeless Muggle-born? Perhaps she had been the deprived of her wand and subsequently broken her hand. But why did she not go to a Muggle hospital? Professor Quirrell had assured him that Muggles could mend broken bones, if not as quickly as wizards. He really ought to convince her to see a Muggle healer. "Yes," he said, making his voice as soothing as he could. "What happened to your hand?"

She shook her head and screwed her eyes shut. "Nothing. Where are Harry and Ron?"

Percy ignored her. He knelt before her and gently extended her arm to examine the injury. Her hand was red and swollen, with thick scars covering it. It glistened with some fluid Percy preferred not to think about. The faint stench of decay hung in the air. No ordinary injuries could have caused such a wound. This was Dark magic. She should not be here. Curses cast on one part of the body sometimes spread to others. Hermione could suffer permanent disability or worse if she did not get treatment.

It wasn't his problem. Hermione was an Undesirable. Aiding her would land him in Azkaban for the rest of his life. He wasn't a Healer, and he could hardly drop her off at St. Mungo's. The scraps of medical knowledge he had acquired over the last year in case the worst should happen might dull the pain a bit, but that was all. He could hardly be expected to risk his life for that. And yet…

Even disregarding the probable magical emergency, Hermione was clearly in no state to defend herself. The Snatchers or Death Eaters would find her easy prey. Would they even bother with the semblance of a trial, or would they just throw her to the Dementors? If she somehow escaped capture, she would likely find herself begging on the streets. He remembered her sitting in the common room with her nose in _Hogwarts: A History_ or waxing rhapsodic over Grisoli's seminal paper on the magical properties of the number forty-two. She'd been the only Gryffindor besides him to take Ancient Runes in the last decade. The idea that she could become as desperate, as debased, as Paulson nauseated him. It would be like vandalizing one of Pradorf's oil paintings.

_"What good is all that talent if you can't save people?"_ Percy inhaled. He was almost certain that he was going to regret what he was about to do, but he was terrified that he would regret not doing it more. "Come along, Hermione." He grabbed her left arm and hauled her to her feet.

She jerked away weakly. "What are you doing? Let me go. I… have to find… Harry and Ron."

"And what good would you be to them like that? You need help, and I mean to see that you get it." She made a noise in the back of her throat, which he chose to take for a cry of pain and not an incoherent attempt to tell him to piss off. Her knees buckled, and he put an arm around her waist to steady her. "We're going home."

She didn't resist him any further, and they walked together awkwardly down the street. As time wore on, he found himself bearing more and more of her weight, until he was half-dragging, half-carrying her. Several strangers shot him sympathetic glances as he passed. He supposed they thought him a long-suffering brother or boyfriend dragging Hermione home after she had gotten thoroughly sloshed at the local pub. He tried to imagine a drunken Hermione and almost smiled at the incongruity. Neither of them spoke, though Percy didn't know if the curse was affecting her ability to speak or if she was conserving her energy.

Percy's flat was a shabby two bedroom affair in Bloomsbury. Its two chief virtues at the moment were that the building was otherwise occupied entirely by Muggles, and more importantly, it was on the ground floor. He doubted he had the strength to get Hermione up a flight of stairs. He stole a quick glance to make sure that there were no Muggles around, and shifted Hermione's weight slightly so he could grab his wand. _"Alohomora,"_ he whispered. The door swung open, and he carried her inside.

There were advantages to living on his own instead of with inveterate slobs like his siblings. He was spared the inconvenience of having to clear a path to the couch. Which was fortunate. Hermione was not especially heavy, but he was not used to carrying over a hundred pounds of near dead weight for several blocks, either. By the time he was able to put her down on the couch as gently as he could manage, he was sweaty and exhausted.

His night was far from over. "Can you talk?"

She turned to look at him through half-closed eyes. "Yes," she croaked.

Percy breathed a sigh of relief. That was a good sign, and it made his task much easier. "Do you remember what spell you were attacked with?"

"Don't know… name. Incantation was…_Mu — Mutil._ Something like that."

Well, that was something. Percy walked over to his bookshelf and pulled a six-inch thick leather-bound volume from the top shelf. Ever since You-Know-Who's return had become public knowledge, publishers had turned a tidy profit printing handbooks for the identification and treatment of common (and not so common) curses. _The Official St. Mungo's Guide to Hexes, Jinxes, and Other Dark Magic_ was among the most comprehensive. Unless the spell that had afflicted Hermione had been created in the last year, it would be in the book.

After several minutes of frenetic searching, he found what he was looking for:

_The Mutalus Curse. Incantation: Mutilo. Developed by Gustav Sjoric in 1723 specifically to incapacitate fellow wizards. It most commonly affects the wand hand or arm of the victim, though it can be cast on any limb. The characteristic welts (see figure 13) cause excruciating pain and severely restrict motion in the targeted area. The pain increases exponentially over time. If left untreated, it can rival the Cruciatus Curse. Application of essence of murtlap to the affected area can provide some pain relief. However, it is essential that a Healer be seen as soon as possible. If treated within twenty-four hours, most (average 88.9%) function can be restored. You don't want to know what happens when you don't see a Healer. Trust us._

Percy paled. There should be some of essence of murtlap in his Potions chest, but where was he supposed to find a Healer who wouldn't have both of them arrested on sight? Posters emblazoned with Harry, Ron, and Hermione's images hung in every shop window in Diagon and Knockturn Alley. A person would have to be either blind or an imbecile not to recognize her. Healers were generally neither.

There was one other option that didn't involve leaving Hermione to fend for herself. There were rumors that Dumbledore's private army had not disbanded upon their leader's death and were doing everything they could to thwart Thicknesse's administration. Armies always had to have a medic. Whatever their other failings, they could be trusted to take care of one of Harry Potter's dearest friends. He would have to bring one of them to her.

But who? It wasn't as if Dumbledore's followers went around wearing "I'm a member of the resistance" badges. He was almost certain that his entire family were members, but he could not and would not contact them. There were others, though. Dumbledore had always had a gift for inspiring loyalty in a certain class of person. The trick was finding one who had not yet gone into hiding. There was Professor McGonagall, of course. She had Dumbledore had seemed to function as one unit for as long as he could remember. He would bet his life that she was a member. But McGonagall still taught at Hogwarts, and Hogwarts was no longer safe. Snape was Headmaster, and the walls literally had ears. That eliminated Hagrid as well.

He mentally ran down the list of those known to have displayed great personal loyalty toward Dumbledore. Alastor Moody was missing and presumed dead. Kingsley Shacklebolt had vanished. Remus Lupin… now there was a thought. It was commonly known that the only reason that Lupin had been able to teach a Hogwarts was that Dumbledore had offered him the job and guaranteed him a supply of Wolfsbane Potion. Lycanthropy was a debilitating condition that rendered the victim virtually unable to work. Lupin must worship Dumbledore for what he had done for him. Thanks to his recent marriage, his address would be in the Ministry's personnel files. Tonks had been transferred to a desk job, ostensibly because of her pregnancy, but she still came to the office every day. Even resistance fighters had to eat. It would be a simple matter to head back to the Ministry on some pretext or other and look up their address. It was a risk. He probably wasn't judged important or suspicious enough to be under surveillance, but the Lupins almost certainly were.

He looked over at Hermione. Her face was now contorted in an expression that he had thought to find only in macabre illustrations of Dante. Her breath came in short, hoarse pants. If the book was right, she was in terrible agony, and her condition would only worsen with time. The pain might eventually drive her mad, as it had the Longbottoms. Percy shook his head. He had already committed treason by bringing her here. He might as well risk a bit more and save her. First, though, he should do what he could and apply the murtlap.

The bottle was at the back of the cabinet and covered with a thin layer of dust. Percy removed the stopper and sniffed. At least it hadn't spoiled. He returned to the sitting room and pulled up a chair beside Hermione, then held the bottle to her eye level. "I'm going to put some of this on your hand. It should help with pain. Then, I'm going to find some proper help."

"Harry?"

Why the bloody hell was she so set on finding Harry? He probably couldn't heal so much as a scrape. Percy gently took her injured hand and covered it in murtlap. The mingled odors nearly made him physically ill. "No, not Harry. Remus Lupin. Maybe he or one of his friends at Dumbledore's little group can heal your hand. I'll be back soon"

"They're called… Order." She sighed. "That feels good. Thank you."

He finished applying the paste and closed the bottle. "You're welcome. What's the Order?"

"Order of the Phoenix. Secret society that fights You-Know-Who."

Percy filed the information away for later use. One never knew when knowing something's real name would be useful. He stood up and patted her awkwardly on the shoulder. "I'll be back soon, I promise."

It was only half past seven by the time he re-entered the Atrium, but it seemed unnaturally still and quiet. Until last August, it would not have been unusual to find dozens of ambitious young employees like himself bustling about, working late in a desperate attempt to impress their superiors. Now, only the masochistic and those truly dedicated to the new regime stayed a moment longer than they had to. Every time the Dementors entered the building, they left impressions of their passing. If Percy stood in certain spots for too long, long suppressed memories would claw their way to the surface: his mum sobbing over Uncles Gideon and Fabian, his father telling him exactly what he thought of Percy's loyalty to the Ministry.

Unfortunately, one of those spots was in the corridor that led to the office he now shared with a half dozen other junior clerks, the office that contained the filing cabinet that held personnel records. Percy walked briskly and did his best to think of nothing at all. Sounds like whispers at the edge of hearing assaulted him. Percy shivered, but did not stop. If he stopped, he would remember, and he could not afford to remember while he was on a mission.

To his surprise, the office was not deserted. Casca Warrington sat at his desk, scribbling furiously. Percy didn't know if Warrington was masochistic or dedicated group, but given that his father had been twice arrested (but never convicted) of attacking Muggles, he would suppose Warrington fell into the latter category. He sighed. Nothing had gone his way this evening. Why should this be any different? "Evening."

Warrington's gaze flicked upward in surprise. "Weasley? What are you doing here?"

"Er…" Percy had never quite gotten the knack of lying convincingly, a serious oversight in retrospect. His eyes landed on the filing cabinet. Perhaps he would be best served by a half-truth. "I came to retrieve some files. When I got home, I realized that I had made some rather serious transcription errors. I would like to correct them as soon as possible."

Warrington chuckled knowingly. "Want to avoid old Struthers dressing you down, eh? Can't say I blame you. I forgot to make a note that Mr. McNair was going on vacation last month. Struthers yelled at me so loudly that my ears burned for a week."

Percy bared his teeth into what he hoped was an approximation of a friendly smile. "Precisely." He began thumbing through the folders, taking care to remove one or two at random to camouflage his true goal. Tonks' file was surprisingly thick, filled with a record of days she had missed due to various accidents. Apparently the woman tripped over her own feet on a regular basis. No wonder the Death Eaters had been able to infiltrate the Ministry.

Warrington came to stand behind him and read over his shoulder. Percy stiffened. He couldn't have come so far only to be discovered now. If worse came to worse, he would have to cast a Memory Charm on Warrington and hope he was faster on the draw. He would not be sent to Azkaban over this. "Lupin, Nymphadora Tonks," Warrington read with interest. "I know her. My dad says she's as bad a traitor as her mum was. What sort of right-thinking witch would marry a filthy werewolf? She's polluting her family's blood even further than it already was. There are all sorts of rumors going around that she and her husband are involved in a group that wants to overthrow the Ministry, and after all the good we've accomplished."

Percy closed the folder. So, he wasn't the only one who thought the Lupins were likely members of this Order. That was as close to confirmation as he was going to get. Best to play along, though. "Traitors should be dealt with. Why hasn't she been arrested?"

Warrington waved him away. "I hear that the DMLE is watching both of them pretty closely but hasn't been able to catch either of them doing anything illegal. The wife's mum was a Black. The higher-ups don't want to arrest anyone who's from one of the old families without proof. That could make a lot of the wrong people very angry." His eyes glittered with ill-concealed glee and malice. "They'll get what's coming to them. Traitors always do."

"Well, I certainly hope she does." Percy took out his pocket watch and flipped it open. "If you'll excuse me, I have to leave now so that I can get these corrected before tomorrow morning. Good night." Percy caught his reflection in the metal drawer. The image that stared back at him was distorted but looked every inch the driven, industrious employee. Good.

The mask did not fall until he exited the building and stood once more on the street. It was time for the trickiest part of this mad scheme. According to the personnel file, the Lupins had a residence in the East End, not far from the docks. He was torn between the need to hurry for Hermione's sake and his terror that someone at the Ministry had seen him come back and decided that his actions were suspicious enough to warrant further investigation. He wished that the Lupins lived in the country, someplace he could Apparate safely without risking being seen by a half-dozen Muggles. As it was, discretion won out. He took a circuitous route through the city, doubling back and taking the wrong turns several times. He hoped Hermione would understand. The Dementor's Kiss she would be subjected to if she were discovered would be far worse than the pain she suffered now.

The Lupin residence was a dingy brick townhouse that looked as if it might have been impressive once, but now looked merely shabby. Faded blue curtains were drawn over all the windows, and the front door was chipped and scraped. The smell of sea water and sewage from the nearby Thames so nauseated him that Percy fought the urge to pinch his nostrils. He squared his shoulders, struggled not to take a deep breath, and tapped the knocker against the door three times.

No one answered. Percy knocked again, more loudly. "Open up. It's an emergency!" After a several long moments, he heard voices talking in low tones, and then footsteps. The door opened, and a single red eye peered at him. "What sort of emergency?" a woman's voice said.

Percy almost fled it alarm until he remembered. The young Nymphadora Tonks had delighted in turning her eyes red to frighten first years like himself whenever she passed them in the corridors. Now that she had left Hogwarts, she could frighten potential intruders as well. "It's Hermione Granger. She's been hurt."

The red eye widened and vanished. Two or three seconds passed, though it felt like two or three years. At last, the door swung open. Tonks stood just inside the door. Her wand was pointed at his heart, though at least her eyes were green. "Explain."

Percy did. He told her about finding Hermione on the street, nearly incoherent from the pain and that he had taken her in against his better judgment. "She needs greater assistance than I can provide. She needs the Order of the Phoenix."

Shock flickered across her face for the briefest of moments, and Percy knew that he had guessed correctly. She was a member of the resistance. "This is all a very pretty story, but the Percy Weasley I know isn't quite altruistic. Loads of Death Eaters and Ministry operatives have been using Polyjuice Potion in an attempt to get people to make incriminating statements. How do I know that you aren't one of them?"

"I'm not an imposter, I swear!" Percy held up his hands. "I'll prove it to you. Professor Lupin took five points from me at the end of seventh year because I was out after hours with Penelope Clearwater. It was the only time I ever lost House points."

"Let him in, Dora," a familiar voice called. "That's Percy, all right. I'm surprised he remembered that little incident."

Tonks did not lower her wand, but she did step back enough to allow him entry. Deciding that was as much of a welcome as he was going to get, Percy slipped inside. The door slammed shut behind him. Remus Lupin put down his cup of tea and rose from the couch. "A pleasure to see you again, Percy," he said, sticking out his hand. "Please forgive us for our caution. We've been a bit on edge these last few months.

"Think nothing of it," Percy said, though he thought a lot of having a wand pointed at him. "Now, about Hermione."

Lupin's expression grew suddenly grave. "Of course. You said she was gravely injured? How bad is it?"

Percy told him. Lupin paled further, and Tonks' hair and eyes grew black. Percy did his best to ignore them and keep his tone businesslike. "Can one of your people help her?"

Lupin thought for a moment. "Since we lost Sn — our potions expert, I've become our de facto field medic. I'm only a mediocre healer, I'm afraid, but I should be able to stop any further damage, and perhaps reverse it slightly. Dora, do you mind coming with me in case I need some help?"

She shrugged and patted her belly. "Little Theo and I need to get out of the house anyway."

"Theo? What if it's a girl?" Tonks gave him a look. He sighed. "Let me get some supplies and we'll be on our way. And we are not naming him Theo. Teddy, maybe."

"Just so you know," Tonks said when he was gone, "I won't hesitate to kill you if it turns out that this is a trap. We've made too much progress against the Death Eaters to see it ruined by the likes of you. My son is not going to grow up in a police state."

"Yes, ma'am," said Percy in a small voice.

Lupin returned several moments later carrying a bag and a battered potions kit that looked old enough to have belonged to his father. He turned to Percy. "You had better go now."

"What? What about Hermione? Aren't you coming with me?"

"Will be along shortly. It's safer if we travel by different routes."

Percy nodded. He didn't like having to wait on Lupin, but at least he wouldn't have Tonks breathing down his neck the whole way home. "I'll see you then."

It was dark by the time Percy made it home, and he wanted nothing more than to lie down and sleep for hours, but who knew how long it would take Lupin to administer Hermione's treatment? The only consolation was that he wouldn't have to worry about his neighbors prying. Thanks to his Muggle Repelling Charm, they thought his two-bedroom flat was a set of abandoned storage rooms, and his landlady thought that the gold coins (so much more valuable than the paper Muggles normally used for money, surely) that appeared outside her door at regular intervals were gifts from a well-meaning but eccentric stranger.

He checked on Hermione. All the color had drained from her cheeks, and she thrashed weakly. Her moans were louder and more incoherent than when he had left, though Ron's and Harry's names still popped up regularly. Percy's lips thinned. He had only seen her this ill once before. He had sneaked into the Hospital Wing to visit her every day after classes. Well, technically he had been visiting Penelope, but visiting Penelope necessarily entailed visiting Hermione, too, so it still counted. He had fallen into the habit of leaving small, inexpensive sweets on her bedside table. Percy couldn't say why he had done that, though he was inclined to chalk it up to sentiment and the desire to do his duty by a fellow Gryffindor. Hermione had not lacked for well-wishers. She had never figured out who had left them, either. As far as he knew, she still thought it was Dean or Seamus. Percy had never corrected her. It might have led to an embarrassing scene involving crying and hugs. He shook his head. Such foolish memories were irrelevant. They might as well have belonged to an entirely different man. He could no longer afford even those small kindnesses.

Since Hermione was in no state to have a conversation, Percy sat silently by her side and watched the grandfather clock in the corner. At precisely 8:57 there was a sharp knock at the door. Percy jumped up and looked through the peephole. Lupin and Tonks, as promised. He opened the door and ushered them inside. "She's on the couch," Percy said softly.

Lupin took the chair he had been using and Tonks moved to stand beside him. Percy tried not to be too obvious in his hovering. Hermione moaned loudly when Lupin took her hand to examine it, but otherwise gave no sign that she recognized him or even knew that he was there. Lupin examined her hand for several moments but kept his face carefully blank. Percy had to fight the urge to ask him how bad it was. He passed his wand over the injury three times. A soft blue glow enveloped Hermione's hand for a moment before fading again. "Good. That should keep the pain from getting worse." He dug into his bag and pulled out a jar filled with thick purple gel that smelled like raw sewage. Tonks wrinkled her nose, and Percy gagged. Lupin didn't react to the smell at all. He placed a dollop of the stuff on his fingers and massaged it into her hand. "Dora, please get the bandages from the bag."

"Way ahead of you," she said, producing a stack of clean linen bandages.

Lupin took them and wrapped Hermione's injured hand. "Could one of you hold her head up for me? I'm going to give her a sedative so she can rest."

Percy pushed his way past Tonks. "I'll do it." He propped her up as gently as he could while Lupin poured a vial of clear, odorless liquid down her throat. When the vial was empty, Percy lowered her back to the couch. Moments later, Hermione's eyes fluttered closed, and her breathing became deep and even. Lupin wiped his brow. "There. I've done all I can."

Percy exhaled. "Thank you." He flushed when he realized what he had said. "On behalf of Hermione. I'm sure she would thank you herself if she were, er, conscious."

Lupin looked between Percy and Hermione and smiled slightly. "I'm sure." He cleared his throat. "You've shown extraordinary courage tonight."

"I only did what I thought was best." It was better to risk his neck saving Hermione and hope she would somehow escape England than for her to become another dirty beggar who screamed obscenities at him.

"The Order could use a man like you."

"What?" Percy couldn't believe his ears. Joining secret societies seemed like something his dad or his brothers would do. Not him. For a moment, he almost said yes. As a boy, he had owned a box of Muggle science fiction novels that Professor Quirrell had given him before he had left for Albania, back when he had taught Muggle Studies. They were all the same: a heroic yet doomed band of rebels fighting a hopeless battle against a tyrannical state. This was almost like that. The Ministry was certainly tyrannical, and the Order was certainly doomed. "No. It's too risky."

"Says the man who stole government property and is harboring a known fugitive."

"That's different!" Percy scowled. "There's a good chance Hermione will recover and you lot will be able to spirit her out of the country or whatever it is that you do. Besides, I know her. There is, however, very little chance that your organization can do anything to topple or weaken the government. Dumbledore is dead and the supposed Chosen One is Merlin-knows-where. How do you propose a group of ordinary wizards fight against… him? No, I will not throw my life away on a meaningless gesture."

Lupin shook his head. "If that's how you feel. You've helped save Hermione. That's enough for now."

What did he mean "for now?" "Speaking of Hermione, when will you be able to get her out of here? I don't want to be at risk for any longer than necessary."

"It will be some time before she's recovered enough to be moved comfortably. Two weeks, perhaps three. In the meantime, we'll meet to discuss security precautions."

"I'll make sure to put Locking Charms on all the doors and windows."

Tonks laughed. "Do you think Locking Charms would keep You-Know-Who or his cronies out if they discovered one of Harry Potter's two best friends was staying here? They'd be on you before you could even start begging for mercy." She stroked her chin. "The best thing we could do is set up a Fidelius Charm with you as Secret Keeper. Hermione is incapacitated, and Lupin and I are involved in things that might get us captured. You aren't."

Percy nodded. He was the logical choice. If Hermione was discovered, he was in as much danger as she was. He had no logical motive to betray her. "Very well."

Lupin brightened. "Excellent. We can cast it right away. What's the exact address of this flat?"

"27B Wimpole Street." Lupin stared at him expectantly. "London," he finished lamely.

Lupin drew a line between Percy and Hermione with his wand. "Repeat after me: Hermione Granger is located at 27B Wimpole Street, London, at the residence of Percy Ignatius Weasley."

Percy did so, though he felt a bit stupid referring to himself in the third person. When he had finished, Lupin screamed, "_Fidelio!"_ at the top of his lungs. The sitting room was bathed in a brilliant orange glow that made it look like the home of deranged Cannons fan. Percy heard a sound like a key turning in a lock, though it might have been his imagination.

"Now you need to tell us that Hermione's here," Tonks said. "Once we leave, the spell will affect us and we won't even remember that she's here."

Percy did so. "So, I suppose you two will be back in a day or two to check on her." He walked towards the door to show them out. Once they were gone, he could finally get some sleep.

"Not so fast." Tonks held up a hand. "I think we need to give Hermione one more bit of protection. You'll have to swear an Unbreakable Vow that you won't tell anyone where she is or throw her out until we say you can. That way you won't be tempted to tell the Ministry anything."

"You think… you think that I would betray Hermione?" Percy drew himself to his full height and shook with barely suppressed rage. "Just because I won't join your little Order doesn't mean I want to see her tossed in Azkaban or worse! You can trust me!"

Lupin laughed, though there was no humor in it. "The last time someone told me that, one of my dearest friends was murdered and another spent thirteen years in prison for a crime that he did not commit. You'll excuse me if I don't take you on faith. We must ensure that you can be trusted. The only other option would be to place you under the Imperius Curse."

"But that's an Unforgivable Curse! I thought your crowd was above that sort of thing."

Tonks seized Percy by the front of his robes and pulled him close. "Listen to me! Hermione is Undesirable Number Two for a reason. If the Death Eaters ever get their grubby little hands on her, they won't hesitate to use her as bait to attract Harry. Harry is the only hope we have to stop You-Know-Who. If something happens to him, we're done for. If I have to do dodgy things like cast Unforgivables to prevent that from happening, well, this is war."

She released him, and Percy stepped back hurriedly. She was serious. So much for the supposed "good guys" being nice. He remembered the stories that had surfaced after Mr. Crouch's death, and how his attempts to fight off the Imperius Curse had driven him mad. Would they be willing to risk that he would end up the same way? Yes, he decided, they would. Lupin might call it "a dirty business" and Tonks might chalk him up to regrettable collateral damage, but they would take away his will if they thought it would keep Hermione safe. And he had no hope of fighting off a trained Auror and a former Defense professor. "Let's get this over with."

"Thank you," Lupin said pleasantly, as if Percy had agreed to look after his cat while he was away. He took Percy's right hand in his. "If you would be so kind as to serve as our Bonder, Dora?" Tonks nodded and laid the tip of her wand over their joined hands.

"Will you keep Hermione's location secret unless she, Tonks or I give you leave to disclose that information?" Lupin's voice was low and rhythmic and Percy could not escape the feeling, foolish as it was, that his words contained the true magic and the wand was just for show.

"I will." A ribbon of flame shot from the wand and wound its way over and around their hands like the pair of Muggle handcuffs Fred had once tricked him into. Percy flinched instinctively, but it did not burn him.

"Will you allow her to stay in your home until she has recovered and another suitable place can be found?"

"I will." The flame intertwined with the first, forming a chain that danced and quivered over them.

"Will you protect her to the best of your ability while she is in your care?"

"I will." The final jet of flame issued from Tonk's wand. Percy could see the light reflected in Lupin's eyes. The flame twisted with the others, coiling around their hands like rope or a burning serpent. The flames grew brighter and brighter until Percy was forced to use his free hand to shield his eyes. Everyone held their breath. Percy felt something like a thousand grains of hot sand burrowing deep within his chest and knew that the Vow had been made. For good or ill, Hermione was his responsibility.

The flame vanished. Percy exhaled and drew hand back quickly, fighting the urge to rub the area where the fire had touched it. Tonks stowed her wand away again while Lupin smoothed a crease from his robes. It was almost funny, Percy thought. An outside observer would have thought nothing more ominous than a particularly tense dinner party had taken place.

He saw Lupin and Tonks to the door. Tonks smiled at him. Either she had already forgotten that she had threatened him with an Unforgivable less than ten minutes earlier or, having guaranteed his compliance if not his loyalty, thought she could afford to be polite. "We'll be back in a few days to check on her and bring by some fresh bandages. You do know how to change bandages, don't you?

Percy nodded. "Anyone who lives with Fred and George for more than five minutes learns a bit about first aid. I'll pick up some bandages on the way home from work tomorrow."

"No. Someone might be suspicious about why you want them." Lupin indicated the scars on his face and hands. "No one ever questions me for buying bandages." He and Tonks shook his hand one last time and were gone.

Percy wanted nothing more than to collapse into a heap and sleep for three days running. How had he gotten himself into this situation? Taking in injured fugitives, even old school friends, was the sort of thing that Bill or his mum would have done. He usually had a stronger self-preservation instinct. It was all Paulson's fault, he decided. He had made Percy felt guilty about how far he had fallen, even though the Ministry's policies could hardly be laid at Percy's feet. If his conscience hadn't been pricked, he never would have been so stupidly chivalrous as to risk his life and bring her home. He never would have gone to see Lupin and Tonks. He never would have sworn an Unbreakable Vow to keep her safe. He never would have…

Well, he had done it, and that was all that mattered. He looked over at the Hermione, who still slept soundly. If the sedative Lupin had given her was as strong as Percy thought it might be, nothing short of an Erumpet Horn explosion was going to wake her up. He went into the back bedroom. Since she was going to be his guest for some time, he might as well set her up properly. Percy wrinkled his nose in disgust. The guest bedroom had not been slept in for nearly a year. He had once dreamed of having influential friends and colleagues over on a regular basis, the better to network. Those dreams had come to nothing. He had been one of Fudge's most ardent supporters, and his stock had fallen along with the Minister's. Any hope that he might have had for a resurgence had been dashed when Scrimgeour figured out that Percy had held no sway over Harry Potter. The last person to sleep here had been Penelope, before she had gotten as sick of him as everyone else.

Percy cast a quick freshening charm. Domestic spells were not his strong suit, but it would serve for now. He threw back the covers and smoothed down the sheets before returning to the sitting room. Hermione had shifted slightly and her head was at an uncomfortable looking angle. Percy debated getting her a pillow, but thought better of it. It would be simpler to put her to bed since there was no chance of waking her. _"Locomotor Hermione,"_ he murmured. Hermione floated off the couch. Percy guided her through the bedroom door, being careful not to scrape her injured hand. He set her gently on the bed and laid the coverlet over her with a flick of his wand. She sighed in her sleep and Percy half-smiled at his handiwork.

"I do hope that you appreciate this," he said softly as he closed the door behind him.


	3. You Must Remember This

Hermione woke to the smell of pumpkin juice. She felt as if she had been kept in an underground cavern for a century and was only now clawing her way to the surface. Her right hand felt as if it had been encased in cotton. That was odd. She wiggled the tips of her fingers experimentally. A sharp pain lanced through her. _Definitely not trying that again._ How had she hurt her hand? She scrunched up her face trying to remember. They had been in London and the Death Eaters had found them. She had gotten separated from Harry and Ron. Lestrange had attacked her. The rest was a hazy, disjointed blur of pain, a cramped flat, and a man who reminded her of Percy Weasley, except she hadn't spoken to him since the Triwizard Tournament so why would he be here?

Pots and pans clattered somewhere nearby, but it was otherwise quiet. Dread coiled within her. Harry and Ron were always so noisy in the mornings. They wouldn't have been able to keep silent for her sake even if she was injured. And neither of them knew how to make pumpkin juice. She opened her eyes. It was as she feared: she wasn't in the tent. She lay in a small, Spartan bedroom that smelled like hers at home when her mother used too much air freshener. Had she been captured? There was no sign of guards, nor had she been tied up, shackled, or otherwise visibly restrained. That didn't mean much. Magical prisons didn't need conventional walls or locks. The door was ajar, though, which was promising. Even wizards usually bothered to lock a prisoner's door. Her wand lay on the bedside table. Well, that settled it. She hadn't been captured. The Death Eaters would have remembered to take her wand. But if she wasn't a prisoner, where was she and what had happened to Harry and Ron? Investigation was called for.

Hermione swung her legs off the side of the bed, sat up, and stood. She felt a bit unsteady on her feet, but at least it didn't appear like she was suffering from nausea or vertigo. She looked around the room, searching for clues as to whose house she was in. A quick glance through the closet turned up nothing but a few dark, nondescript robes. There were no photographs or paintings, moving or otherwise, on the walls or the dresser. A large metal box with a hinged lid stood under the bed. Perhaps this room had been used for storage recently.

She grabbed her wand in her left hand and crept down the corridor. There were no pictures here either, but a small bookshelf was tucked away in the far corner. Hermione stopped to peruse the contents. All were magical biographies or histories: _Pre-Hogwarts Magical Education in Europe, Peter Abelard: The Forgotten Wizard, Prefects who Gained Power, A Brief History of the Runic Languages..._ Hermione nodded in approval. Whoever lived here had very good taste in books. So, she was definitely in a wizard's home. She held herself still and listened. Someone was playing extremely bad jazz somewhere above her. This wizard lived in the same building as Muggles. Curiouser and Curiouser.

A throat cleared nearby. "Oh, you're awake. I was beginning to wonder if what Lupin gave you would ever wear off."

Hermione startled and pointed her wand at the intruder. It was Percy Weasley. He was dressed for work at the Ministry and carried a briefcase in one hand. He was paler and thinner than she remembered. Dark circles ringed his eyes, as if he hadn't slept in some time. He watched her with a mixture of relief and alarm. "Could you please point that elsewhere? I've been threatened enough on your account as it is."

Hermione ignored him. Percy might have been Ron's brother, but that didn't mean that he could be trusted. His first loyalty had always been to the Ministry, and there was no reason to suspect that had changed. He might have considered it his patriotic duty to apprehend her. Snatchers or Death Eaters might be arriving at any moment. "What are you doing here? What am I doing here? And where the bloody hell are Harry and Ron?"

Percy sniffed. "I don't know where Harry and Ron are. I haven't seen them since last Christmas. And this is my flat. You've been asleep in my spare bedroom for the last two days."

"I ... come again?" She didn't know which shocked her more: the idea that she had been unconscious for two days or that she was in Percy's flat. "What happened?"

He told her, beginning with finding her on the street nearly incoherent with pain and finishing with the announcement that the flat was now under a Fidelius Charm. "Lupin's coming by later today to check on you, so please don't go running off before then."

Hermione suppressed a laugh. That was the most ridiculous story she had ever heard. If he was trying to deceive her into staying so that the authorities could arrive and arrest her, then he had failed miserably. Even in school, Percy had always cared more about following the rules then doing the morally right thing or behaving charitably. "I'm leaving." If she were lucky, Harry and Ron had not yet moved camp. Perhaps they were even now searching for her.

"It's not safe for you to leave yet. Lupin said that you were supposed to stay here until your hand healed," he said with uncharacteristic fervor.

"I think I'd like to ask Remus that myself, thank you."

"How do you propose we do that? All owls are being intercepted and their post checked, especially those of Ministry employees."

"I didn't say that I was going to send an owl." She readied her wand. It felt awkward and clumsy in her hand. She thought of the day she had gotten her Hogwarts letter and how excited she had been at the knowledge that she was going to enter a new world. The memory had never failed to produce a Patronus. _"Expecto Patronum!"_ A formless silver blob shot from her wand. Hermione waited a moment. It did not turn into an otter, and she dismissed it with an irritated flick of the wrist. She had never failed to produce a fully corporeal Patronus since the first DA meeting. The shock of waking up in a strange place and her irritation at Percy must have been affecting her concentration. She took a deep breath and tried again, this time remembering her first kiss with Viktor. But she only produced a few silver wisps.

What was wrong with her? Her technique had been flawless, and either of the two memories should have been enough to power a Patronus. Spells didn't just decide to stop performing properly for no reason. Something must have happened since the last time she produced a Patronus. The obvious difference was that her hand had been badly damaged. Had Lestrange's curse done something to her magical abilities? She had never heard of such a thing, but that was no guarantee that it didn't exist. Snape had created at least one other extremely dark spell that caused extraordinary pain. He might have created another that could also impair the spell-casting abilities of the victim and taught it to Lestrange. It seemed like Snape's sort of magic. If that were true, then she'd have trouble with every spell, not just casting a Patronus.

She pointed her wand at the bookshelf. _"Accio_ Prefects who Gained Power!" The book drifted off the shelf and hovered for a moment before dropping to the ground.

Percy picked it up and glared in her. "I realize I'm a bit unpopular with your crowd, but that's no reason to go throwing my things about!"

Hermione stared at the spot where the book had fallen. "I didn't. It just fell." This was very bad. The Summoning Charm was far simpler than casting a Patronus. She had mastered it almost on the first go. She had always been so proud of mastering spells more quickly than her classmates despite being from a Muggle background. Every O she received on her exams, every scrap of praise from a teacher was a "Take that!" to Malfoy and every other pureblood fanatic who thought that she wasn't fit to walk the halls of Hogwarts. It was beginning looked as if those pureblood fanatics had gotten their revenge at last.

Percy looked from her to the book in his hand and back. "I'm going to fire-call Remus. This isn't normal."

"The Floo Network is probably being monitored. You should use some kind of code."

He glared at her as if to say "I knew that," but said nothing as he trooped into the sitting room. He tossed a handful of Floo Powder into the fireplace, knelt, and stuck his head inside. "Mr. Lupin? Could you bring back the copy of the Dacworth-Granger file that your wife borrowed? My superiors have ... woken up to certain facts that might cause ... problems."

He had scarcely had time to stand before Remus was climbing out of the fire. "Merlin, Weasley. Could you have been any more obvious? You might as well have just told me Hermione was awake."

"Well, I am new to espionage, sir."

Remus muttered something under his breath, but his expression softened when he saw Hermione. "It's good to see you up and about. You were in serious trouble for a few days."

"I think I might still be." She told him about her difficulties casting spells. "I think Lestrange did something to me besides hurt my hand."

Remus thought for a moment. "Perhaps. Perhaps not. I'd like you to try casting a few spells for me now." She did as he asked, with varying results. She was able to turn a loose button that Remus had in his pocket into a beetle without much trouble, but changing the gray in his hair and brown was beyond her. She successfully Disarmed him after two attempts but couldn't cast a Shield Charm. An attempt to produce water from her wand created a trickle that petered out after a few moments. All but the simplest jinxes and hexes had no effect at all.

"The good news is that I don't believe you've been affected on a more than physical level," Remus said when she was done. "I know of no cases where the Mutalus Curse affected the innate magical abilities of the victim, though it often affects their ability to cast spells by restricting the movement of their hands."

Hermione held up her bandaged hand. "But I wasn't using this hand to cast spells. I can't even hold a wand with it."

"I wonder if that might be the problem. Did you remember the first question that Ollivander asked you when you bought that wand?"

Hermione would never forget the day. Her father had been so shocked by the trail of sparks that had flown out of her wand that he'd sworn off using fireworks to celebrate Guy Fawkes' Day. "He asked me which was my wand arm." Realization dawned within her. "That's why I can barely do magic, isn't it? I haven't been using my wand arm."

"I think so. One side of the body is usually better than the other at most tasks. Focusing magic is no exception."

"So it's like trying to write with your right hand if you're left-handed?" Percy asked. "You can do it, but you're not very good at it."

"Exactly."

"When will I be back to normal? I still have a very important mission." It was vital that she recover and return to Harry and Ron as soon as possible. She was the one who cast the protective enchantments on the tent every night. The boys had a tendency to forget. She was the only one who could read runes or perform any Arithmantical equations. If Voldemort had set up any kind of puzzle, they would be completely helpless. Neither of them could cook. Neither could she, but at least she hadn't accidentally started a fire like Ron had. Yet.

"I still wish you would tell me exactly what that mission is."

"That's Harry's decision. Not mine."

"I know." He shook his head. "As for when you'll recover, that's harder to say. Two or three weeks, I would say. You may not get all of the function back in your hand, but you should recover most of it. You should still be able to pick up and manipulate objects almost as well as you did before."

Almost as well? Not the most comforting words. "And my magic? Will I be as good as I was before?"

"We'll have to wait and see how well your hand heals. In the meantime, I would suggest that you keep casting spells. Over time, your left arm should grow accustomed to channeling magic. Right now, you seem to be about as skilled as you were back when I taught you, perhaps a little more so in Transfiguration and slightly less so in offensive magic."

Hermione sank onto the couch. She thought about trying to defend herself against Lestrange using only the spells she had known in third year and shuddered. As much as she despised the idea, she couldn't go back to Harry and Ron yet. She would only be a liability if they had to fight. She smiled ruefully. It was a moot point. Apparition was probably another item on the list of things she couldn't do. "Anything else?"

"Stay here. Percy has agreed to look after you during your convalescence, and Tonks and I have given this flat every protection we can manage." Percy grimaced, but Remus ignored him. "The Death Eaters won't find you."

Hermione gaped at him. Percy had been telling the truth. Ron was going to have an aneurysm when he found out where she had been. "Very well."

Remus clapped her on the shoulder. "Good. Would you like me to send a message to Harry and Ron to let them know where you are?"

"How are you going to do that?" Percy asked. "I imagine that if Harry could be found by owl, the Ministry would have done that already. And I thought Ron had spattergroit?"

Remus and Hermione both glared at him, and Percy blushed. "Your brother is fine. The Order has ways of sending a message." Remus turned back to Hermione. "Would you like me to send a Patronus?"

Hermione frowned. The protective enchantments she cast every time they Apparated prevented any magic not cast by the three of them from entering the area. A Patronus couldn't come within fifty yards of the tent. Harry or Ron would have to just happen to be outside when it appeared. On the other hand, she didn't really have much of a choice. Any other means of sending a message would be equally as magical. She would just have to trust that Harry's near supernatural luck would extend that far. They were probably frantic with worry. They might even be stupid enough to stay in one place while they waited for her to come back. Harry would never willingly abandon either her or Ron. "I'd appreciate that."

Remus smiled warmly. "I'll do it as soon as I get home, but I should be going now. Contact me if you need anything. I'll be back as soon as I can to check on your progress." He threw another handful of powder into the fire and vanished.

"I do hope you're satisfied that I'm not going to murder you or tell the Ministry where you are." Percy checked his watch. "And you've made me very nearly late. I won't even have time to eat breakfast."

"Sorry." Her brow furrowed. "Why are you doing this? Did you join the Order?"

"I most certainly did not! Only a fool would join a cause that has no chance of success. I took pity on you when I found you wandering the streets. One thing led to another, and I've been appointed your keeper until you recover. I assure you that I'm no happier about this arrangement than you are. You might have some mission you can't wait to run off and do, but _I_ can't wait to resume my normal life." He walked to the door. "There's some food in the icebox if you get hungry. I'll see you this evening."

Hermione watched him go. There was more to this story than either he or Remus was letting on. That much was obvious. She smiled grimly. If there was one thing she loved, it was a puzzle. Even if that puzzle was Percy Weasley.

* * *

"Listeners, that brings us to the end of another _Potterwatch._ We don't know when it will be possible to broadcast again, but you can be sure we shall be back. Keep twiddling those dials: the next password will be 'Fawkes.' Keep each other safe. Keep faith. Good night."

Hermione turned off the radio. She would have to thank Remus profusely for giving her the password the next time he came over. It was wonderful to know what was going on in the outside world again after months of isolation, even if the news was often grim, as it had been today. A Muggle father of two had jumped to his death off Tower Bridge. The man had shown signs of being fed on by Dementors. This was what she, Harry, and Ron were fighting against. Sometimes, they had gotten so caught up in chasing leads or keeping Slytherin's locket safe that they forgot why they were even doing it in the first place, and what it would mean if they didn't succeed in finding and destroying the Horcuxes.

It had been wonderful, too, to know that they were not the only ones fighting. She had known intellectually that the Order had not vanished into the air after helping Harry escape Privet Drive, but it had been all too easy to believe that they were alone in the world while they were in that tent. But Lee, Remus, and Kingsley were risking their lives to bring people the truth. Dozens more were risking their lives to do what they could to protect Muggles and others in danger.

She supposed that Percy fell into the latter category, but it was difficult to think of him as a hero. He was her stuffy, somewhat cold roommate. They had fallen into a routine of sorts over the last week and a half. He would cook breakfast for them both, and she would clean up afterwards. Cleaning spells were relatively simple and good practice for learning to channel magic through her left arm. Hermione had the house to herself for most of the day. She would read one of Percy's history books or practice simple charms. She tried listening to the Wizarding Wireless Network once, but the blatant anti-Muggle propaganda had sickened her. After Percy came home, he would retire to his bedroom, and makeshift, study to do some unspecified paperwork. He never talked about his job. She remembered how he had used to yammer on every other minute about how proud he was to be Barty Crouch's assistant. The change disconcerted her. Occasionally, he would make awkward attempts at conversation, asking her opinion on some point of magical theory or nuance of runic translation. On most days, however, they said barely three words to each other.

Hermione had always considered herself an introvert, but she hadn't realized how accustomed she had grown to the company of others until she had lost it. She had been an only child, but there had been hundreds of other children at the local primary school. Her parents had always made sure someone had been there to greet her when she got home from school. Hogwarts had been even more crowded. She had not even slept alone. The common room was always crowded and lively. She had had to threaten the Weasley twins with bodily harm on several occasions so she could study in peace. Hermione had treasured the rare oasis of silence in the library and wished that her life could always be like that. She ought to be thrilled that Percy left her in peace, but she wasn't. This place wasn't silent; it was a mausoleum.

But her discontent was neither here nor there. It was time to practice. She had been working on _Locomotor_ for the last few days. Each day, she could lift heavier and heavier objects and move them a little farther. Today, she was going to try to move the box under the bed from one side of the room to the other. Whatever was in there was heavy enough that she couldn't lift it without straining. If she could move it by magic, she would know that she was making progress.

She marched into her room and dragged the box until it rested against one wall. Then, she took up her position by the dresser, took a deep breath, and readied her wand. Now or never. _Locomotor_ box!" A surge of energy burst from her. The box careened toward her. Forty pounds of metal was going to hit her in the leg unless she acted quickly. _Depulso!"_ Hermione screamed. The box stopped six inches from her and tipped backwards. The lid popped open, and a sea of paperbacks spilled out.

Hermione's breath came in short, quick gasps. That was ... unexpected. Since her injury, her spells had been less powerful than usual. She wondered what could have caused the sudden "surge" that had nearly crushed her and made a mental note to ask Remus about it.

Whatever the cause, it had made a terrible mess. She knelt and began to pick up the books. She started to toss one back in the box but paused when she saw what it was: Goethe's _Faust: Part One._ Percy owned a copy of a Muggle play? Percy knew that Muggles had plays? She picked up another book at random: a worn and well-thumbed copy of _The Diary of Anne Frank._ She picked up another: _Les Misérables._ There were other, slightly lesser works, too. Heinlen. LeGuin. Sayers. Lewis. Tolkein. It was as if she had stumbled onto the reading list for a literature course at the local comprehensive. How had Percy gotten them? Most of the books were cheaply made, and the binding was coming loose on several of them. She didn't think they could have been part of the Muggle Studies course. Professor Burbage had always seemed to be more interested in explaining how the "poor Muggles" got by without magic by using "airyplanes" and "eckletricity" than introducing her students to Muggle literature. Percy had never seemed particularly interested in Muggles; indeed, he had seemed slightly embarrassed by his father's hobby.

She dug further, looking for some clue. Deep within the pile were books she would charitably described as "rubbish:" self-help books, sword and sorcery novels with bare-chested men on the cover, old Mills & Boons with titles like _Marrying the Boss._ These were in better condition and looked as if they had been read once or not at all. Maybe they were part of the Muggle Studies curriculum, after all. Holding up a romantic novel as the pinnacle of Muggle literature seemed a very wizarding thing to do.

Hermione was still curious about where Percy had gotten these books. She picked up the nearest book to hand, _Crime and Punishment_. Maybe there was a stamp or other mark that would tell her where it had been purchased. She opened the book. There was a note written on the inside flap:

_In hopes that you will remember that the same people capable of great atrocities are also capable of great beauty and great good._

_-Quirrell_

Hermione let the book slide from her hands. Quirrell? Professor Quirrell? No, it couldn't be. He'd been Voldemort's faithful servant and had shared a body with him, for Merlin's sake. She felt sure that if he had ever thought Muggles were capable of great good, then Voldemort would not have been able to exert the power over him that he had. All the Death Eaters had been vile racists even before Voldemort had recruited them. Why should Quirrell be any different?

A sharp intake of breath alerted her to a presence nearby. Percy was bracing himself against the doorframe, watching her. He had gone pale, and his expression was a curious mixture of surprise, embarrassment, and what might have been regret. They looked at each other for a long moment. It was the longest that he had ever looked at her since she had come here, but Hermione had the feeling that he didn't quite see her.

Percy coughed, and the spell broke. "You're home early," she said.

"An accident in Experimental Charms turned all our quills to Yorkshire pudding. Let me help you with that," he said softly. He waved his wand. The books on the floor jumped back in the box, and the lid snapped closed.

"Thank you."

He shrugged and magically pushed the box under the bed. "It looked like you needed help."

She stood. If she was going to get some answers, now was as good a time as any. "Are these your books?"

"Yes."

"You bought all these?"

"On my salary?" He smiled ever so slightly. "Dad bought the less ... prestigious ones."

She held the book out to him. "And this one?"

Percy gulped and stared at his shoes. "Professor Quirrell gave me that a few weeks before he left for Albania." He shook his head. "I know what you're thinking. He wasn't always as you knew him. Before he took the Defense job, he was probably the most brilliant Muggle Studies professor Hogwarts had ever had. I took his class my third year. He taught us about Muggle culture and science, and, er, other things."

"Other things?"

He looked at her. "How very good they were at torturing and killing their own." He counted on his fingers. "The gulags. The Children's Crusade. Eugenics programs in Europe and America. The witch hunts of the sixteenth and seventeenth century." He laughed bitterly. "I think that was the first time I realized that people had died because of them. To hear Bagshot and Binns tell it, they were just an excuse for us to play a good joke on the Muggles and cast Flame-Freezing Charms. I took the truth harder than most."

She laid a hand on his shoulder. "They aren't all like that you know. My parents are wonderful people."

"I know. So are most people when they aren't being sheep. The problem's that they're sheep most of the time. Even the smart ones." He stared at the book in her hand. "Especially the smart ones."

He wasn't talking about the Muggles anymore. She tried to picture Quirrell as something other than the faux-bumbling host for Voldemort she had known but couldn't quite manage it. He'd always been a cardboard villain in her mind, and incapable of depth. "Tell me about him."

"Quirrell? Brilliant, like I said. Not very well thought of, because of his field, but still brilliant. He was a good teacher, too. Never berated me like Snape did. I thought he was perfect. My first in a long string of bad judgments."

Percy had just admitted he'd been wrong. If she weren't a fugitive, she would have owled the _Prophet._ "It's never too late to correct a mistake," she offered in what she hoped was a sympathetic manner.

"That depends on the mistake." Percy grabbed his wand and flicked his wrist. The books flew back in the box and it snapped shut. "Feel free to read anything here if you get bored. No sense in letting them go to waste. I'm going to do some work now." He left. Hermione watched him go.

She had a piece of the puzzle but no idea where it fit.

* * *

"Hey, Weasley, pass me the ink, would you?" Percy jumped, spilling the aforementioned ink on the desk. Warrington cursed. "Would you stop being so on edge?"

"Sorry," he said, cleaning up the mess with his wand. "I'm nervous about our evaluations, I suppose." Inwardly, he cursed. Hermione had been living in his flat for two weeks now. He ought to have learned not to be frightened out of his wits every time someone spoke to him. At this rate, the DMLE would be bringing him in for questioning any day now because of his suspicious behavior. Unbreakable Vow or not, he wasn't keen on learning how well he withstood torture.

Warrington smirked. "Of course you would be. Children of blood traitors need every advantage they can get. I, on the other hand, am from a decent family and can afford to slack off every now and again."

Or all the time. Percy bit back a snarl. Those now in power were not only monsters, they were lazy, incompetent ones. It was a wonder that the machinery of government did not grind to a halt with people like Thicknesse and Yaxley in charge and people like Warrington as their faithful lieutenants. If the Order somehow pulled off a miracle and defeated the Death Eaters, they would have their hands full just making day-to-day operations run smoothly again. Hermione could just about manage it, but he shuddered to imagine Tonks in charge of anything.

Warrington went on. "Can you believe that some people are actually resisting the Ministry now? We finally get a government that has the sense to put the best people in charge, and some people want to overthrow it. The Mudbloods and the traitors stupid enough to marry them I can understand. But rumor has it that a lot of people from the old families have thrown their lot in with Potter and are actually praying for him to defeat the Dark Lord." His lips thinned. "Your dad's a blood traitor. Explain it to me."

Percy shrugged noncommittally. "No use trying to understand them. Completely incomprehensible." _To you. You made up your mind long ago that Muggle-borns were dirt, and to hell with the facts. No sense arguing with you._

Warrington clapped him on the shoulder. "Quite right. Their brains are too primitive to work like a normal wizard's. Maybe they shouldn't be thrown in Azkaban after all. Crazy people belonged in St. Mungo's. Either way, we'll get--" The overhead light flickered on and off and Warrington cursed. "What now? If this is Magical Maintenance trying to prove they deserve a raise, someone deserves to get hexed."

Percy never got the chance to respond. Umbridge's magically amplified voice echoed throughout the building. "Attention, all Ministry personnel. While waiting to be summoned before the Muggle-Born Registration Committee, a wizard named Simon McKenzie broke away from the crowd and escaped." Beneath her sickly-sweet tone, Percy thought he detected a note of rage and just the slightest hint of fear. "He is believed to be at large somewhere within the Ministry and to be in possession of a stolen wand. Dementors have been dispatched to deal with the situation and will be searching throughout the building. We appreciate your cooperation in this matter."

Percy shivered. He remembered the Dementors searching the Hogwarts Express the year that he has been Head Boy. He'd nearly fainted and had to spend all of his pocket money on chocolate from the trolley just to recover enough to perform his patrol. That was before You-Know-Who had returned and war had begun. In retrospect, he ought to have learned how to defend himself from Dementors. But they had always been the guards of Azkaban, and he'd foolishly believed that he had nothing to fear from them. He'd always been better at more abstract subjects like Arithmancy than defensive magic, anyway

Neither of them spoke for a long time, and the only sound was the ticking of a cuckoo clock that hung on the wall. The air was cold and thick. Percy was forced to take quick, shallow breaths to breathe at all. The Dementors were coming. _I will not faint. I will not make a fool of myself in front of Warrington._

The door opened. For a moment, Percy could see nothing but a gray, glistening hand on the knob. The Dememtor swept inside. Warrington cringed slightly but otherwise held himself perfectly still. Percy gripped the edge of his desk and tried to clear his mind. Above all else, he must not think of Hermione. The Dementor might have been looking for an escapee, but that didn't mean it wouldn't decide to Kiss anyone it thought might be harboring a fugitive. The Dementor ignored Warringon and fixed its gaze on Percy. He could do nothing but remember.

_The turban was new and made Quirrell look like a poor imitation of a swami. He regarded Percy with ill-disguised contempt. "I don't have time to discuss Muggle literature with you."_

_Percy held the book in front of him like a shield. "But sir, you promised that once you returned from Albania that we would discuss what I read while you were gone. I did everything you asked: looked up words that I didn't understand, made notes--"_

_Quirrell waved him away. "My travels have taught me what things are truly important. Muggle doggerel isn't among them. You'd be wise to forget them and focus on your magical studies."_

_The scene shifted. Now, it was Percy who scowled at his father. "Don't tell me you believe all that rubbish Dumbledore's spouting. The dead stay dead."_

_"Dumbledore wouldn't say it if it weren't true. We have to do everything we can to help defeat You-Know-Who."_

_"Who said anything about 'we'? It's just you and the rest of the family acting like fools. I'm on thin enough ice already after the debacle with Crouch. If you want to destroy what's left of your career, Dad, I can't stop you." He sneered. "Don't expect me to destroy myself just because you tell me to." Percy walked out and slammed the door._

The Dementor moved on, and Percy was suddenly back in the office again. He was hunched over his desk, sweating furiously. The Dementor passed him by and brushed past the remaining clerks in turn. None of them doubled over their desks, though several of them did turn pale. The Dementor glided out as swiftly and silently as it had come. He could almost feel everyone exhale. The other clerks took out their quills and ink and began writing again. Percy followed suit. He must pretend that he was as unaffected as the rest of them. To do otherwise would invite uncomfortable questions.

An hour later, Umbridge spoke again. "Simon McKenzie has been apprehended, and the Dementor's Kiss has been administered. Justice has been served. Have a nice day."

Percy's hand trembled only a bit as he wrote. He told himself it was the weather and forced himself to think of nothing but his work. It was a relief to return home. Hermione was curled up on the couch, holding an open, battered paperback copy of Ender's Game in her good hand. Percy almost smiled. He remembered badgering a Muggle-born dorm mate to explain to him how spaceflight worked for Muggles just after he'd discovered science fiction. The poor fellow had gotten so sick of it that he'd given Percy an illustrated children's book on the moon landing just to shut him up.

"Good evening," Hermione said without looking up. "Did you have a nice day at work?"

"Same as always." There was no need to tell her what had happened. She had enough to worry about already.

Hermione closed her book and looked up. "That's nice. What's for--" Her eyes widened, and she stood up. "You look awful. What happened?"

"Nothing happened. There's some roast in the icebox, if that's what you were going to ask."

"You're a pathetic liar, do you know that?" She took a step closer and studied his face. "You look like you've seen a ghost--or a Dementor."

He was not a pathetic liar. If he was, she would be dead by now. "I have no idea what you're on about."

Hermione ignored him. "You encountered a Dementor. You must have because you look just like Harry did in third year when he was around them. The haunted look in your eyes gives it away."

Percy sat his briefcase down and hung up his cloak. "My eyes are not haunted. I'm just tired. There's this little thing called work. Perhaps you've heard of it."

"I've seen you tired before. This isn't it. Tell me what's wrong. Maybe I can help."

Enough. He'd tried to protect her, but it was clear she didn't appreciate the effort. Maybe he would tell her the truth and see how she liked that. Percy rounded on her. "Fine. The Dementors did come by my office today. They were looking for a man who'd decided to run instead of facing the Muggle-Born Registration Committee. They found him, of course."

He had managed to shock her. It didn't feel nearly as satisfying as he'd hoped. "What happened to him?"

Percy shrugged. "The Dementor's Kiss. What else?"

"I ... see." Hermione sank back onto the couch. "At least he died fighting. There's something to be said for that, anyway."

"For reckless stupidity, you mean?" He followed her into the sitting room and perched on the edge of the chair opposite her. "He ought to have known he was never going to get free, not when the Ministry is infested with Dementors. The McKenzie fellow lost his soul for a few hours of freedom. Somehow I doubt he thought the trade was worth it."

Hermione's expression was grave. "Perhaps not, but the Dementors were going to get him one way or another. Either right then or by chipping away at him for years in Azkaban. A slim chance of freedom, even with the possibility of annihilation, is better than slowly losing everything that makes you human." She bit her lip. "Still, it's a choice I hope that I never have to make."

Percy hoped she never had to, either. A choice like that was no choice at all.


End file.
